


When Later Alone

by rednihilist



Series: Like the Fuckin' Kennedys [1]
Category: Four Brothers (2005)
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe, Prior Noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-04
Updated: 2010-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flash of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Later Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Four Brothers and certain characters belong to Paramount Pictures, Di Bonaventura Pictures, et al., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> Title and song lyrics from Spoon's songs "Stay Don't Go" and "Got Nuffin," respectively.

The problem was Bobby was a jerk. He was an asshole, too, but that was different. No, the being a jerk thing, _that_ was what irritated a person. Assholes were just arrogant, narcissists. Jerks were the needlers, the type who just wouldn't stop fucking picking, who wouldn't give up no matter what.

 

So, yeah, Bobby was an asshole, but he was an even bigger jerk. And he was a jerk to everyone, even Mom, but he was a _massive_ jerk to Jack. Fucker just wouldn't lay off, not about anything. Everything Jack said, did, hell, shit he swore he only _thought_ about, Bobby considered fair game. And it was like a game. At least, that's what Jack had kinda come to believe. Teasing and yanking his chain, that was like a hobby for Bobby.

 

Heh. _Bobby's_ hobby.

 

"Hobby _Lobby_," Jack muttered under his breath.

 

"What was that, you fuckin' pansy?" Bobby called out tiredly from couch. Jack shifted against the door jamb, looking up and over, but all of Bobby's focus was on the TV set.

 

"Nothing," he said, breathing out the drag he'd just taken off his cigarette.

 

"Damn straight nothin'. And how many times I gotta tell ya? Mom doesn't like smoking in the house, numbskull. Take that coffin nail outside."

 

"Don't see _you_ trucking out into the snow," Jack responded, but he dutifully pinched the cherry off the cigarette and stood up from the doorway.

 

"And put on a fuckin' coat, Princess!" Bobby called out just as Jack reached for the handle to the front door. "Don't want you catching a sniffle! Never hear the end of it," he tacked onto the end.

 

Jack couldn't resist rolling his eyes, but he grabbed the nearest coat before going outside. And if it just happened to be that dirty, old leather jacket of Bobby's, well, it was only coincidence. Thing smelled, anyway. Who'd deliberately want to wear something as butt-ugly as that piecer?

 

***

 

"You have any plans, honey?" Mom asked Bobby. "Best to get back into some sort of a routine. Or so I've heard," she added with a little smile.

 

Bobby grinned, and even Jack had to smile a little at the thought of Mom. . .

 

"Don't know," Bobby answered. He set his fork down on his plate and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't looking up at all, not at Mom or even over at Jack. Just kept his eyes on his plate. It was something he'd been doing ever since he got out, something Bobby had never used to do.

 

"You should consider it," Mom urged. "Apply for a job, a _real_ job," she stressed, and both Bobby and Jack kinda smirked at that. "I'm not joking," Mom said harshly. "You've gotta shape up, Kid, or you're. . . well, we all know where you'll wind up if you don't change."

 

"It was B &amp; E, Ma," Bobby put in, "not murder one." And by the way he said it, Jack knew Bobby was trying to play it off as a joke.

 

It wasn't funny, though, and the expression on Mom's face made it clear exactly what her thoughts on the matter were. It was quiet at the table after that. Jack dropped his own eyes down to his plate and knew he wouldn't be able to finish his food. He set his fork down in the middle of the dish, tines down. Mom was still eating, but mechanically, her eyes far away. Things had started out decent enough, but then talk had turned to Bobby, and when they talked about Bobby these days that meant one thing: prison.

 

Jack hated that word. He'd always hated it, for as far back as he wanted to remember, never mind how far back he _could_. Prison was something that'd always seemed so distant, too, though. It used to be that thing that would never touch them, none of them, not _them_, not the Mercer boys. Prison happened to shitheads and the stupid fucks who didn't know what the hell they were doing. Prison was the scary monster in the closet that wanna-be gangstas pissed themselves over.

 

Jail was jail, and getting arrested was practically a rite of passage, but prison? Whatever. Never gonna happen, not to _them_, anyway.

 

And then Jack was coming down the stairs on a Tuesday morning to the sound of Mom crying, and Jerry was standing in the hallway with that stupid hat of his clutched tight between his hands.

 

"Bobby's in trouble," Jerry had told him quietly, Mom still weeping into the phone.

 

Trouble meant a minimum of four years, but really, and more likely with Bobby's temper and shitty luck, anywhere up to ten. It meant lots of nights listening to Mom crying and pacing in her room down the hall. Trouble was that look on Bobby's face when Jack went to see him in jail.

 

"You take care of Ma, you hear?" he'd said. "And don't pull none of that dumbass shit you've been doing lately." Bobby waited until Jack looked up and then stared him down. He leaned closer, his voice going quieter.

 

Bobby's way of being discreet.

 

"Stay away from those freaks, Jackie," he ordered him, and if Jack were being honest, that was Bobby pleading, too. " 'M not gonna be 'round to get you outta. . . those kind of situations anymore. Angel's-- stupid shit's enlisting, and Jerry. . . well. . . " He made a face, and Jack smirked back a little.

 

Yeah, Jerry was still working the straight and narrow, didn't like to get mixed up with his brothers' various shit. Understandable. He had a family, a wife with a kid on the way. Still. Jerry could pretend and turn his head the other way all he liked. Didn't mean the bad stuff returned the favor.

 

"Yeah," Jack said, nodding so Bobby would get that he was paying attention. "Yeah, I'm done with all that."

 

"You better be, you stupid shit," Bobby warned. "Only one of us goes in at a time. It's a new rule." Jack frowned, not least because it wasn't funny, but Bobby took it for disagreement. Or maybe he was just looking for a distraction, and riffing on Jack always filled the bill in that department. "Hey," Bobby said, "I'm the oldest. I make the rules. 'Sides, you go in and you'd never come back out. Well," he added, raising his eyebrows and smirking, "wouldn't 'come out' _that_ way, at any rate. We'd be picking up a real pretty princess on your release day, ya fairy."

 

"As opposed to the walking baboon's ass Mom and I'll be toting home on yours."

 

"Oh-_ho_!" Bobby crowed. "And she strikes again! Well played, man."

 

It was too much. Jack smiled, grinned even at Bobby praising him, and then he remembered where they were and the fact they were talking on opposite ends of a pane of reinforced glass and. . .

 

"Hey, come on, Kid. Jack, Jackie, look at me."

 

The freakin' magic words. Jack looked up and then grimaced and sighed at the expression on Bobby's face.

 

"You gotta pull your shit together, man," Bobby told him. "Be lookin' after Mom for me, kay? _Okay_?" he repeated, and Jack nodded. "And stay outta trouble. I know you. You go to school, and you-- you keep up with that music crap, and then you go home, you hear me? And carry that piece I gave you," Bobby added in a whisper, after carefully looking around.

 

Jack scoffed, then shook his head. "Can't be stashing a freakin' switchblade in my pocket, man. Are you insane?"

 

"Fuck you, Jackie," Bobby snapped back. "You do it. Keep that thing with you 24/7. Even in church. Even in the shower, man. . . fuck, _especially_ the shower. Fuckin' punks at school these days, man."

 

"Whatever, Bobby," Jack muttered.

 

"And-- and you remember I fucking love you, all right? You take care of Mom, and you do your schoolwork and you stay out of trouble, and. . . you know, pretty soon I'll be out and then we'll get back to teachin' you how to _really_ play hockey."

 

Jack sniffled, tried to play it off as a chuckle. "Make a man outta me?" he returned, the old banter just rolling off his tongue.

 

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby replied, nodding distractedly. A second later, Jack realized it wasn't him Bobby was nodding at. It was a guard. They looked at each other again, and then Bobby smiled that fake-ass smile of his. "I'll see ya later, Kid. Stay away from the cock, you hear! And make sure you wash Mom's dresses when you're done wearin' 'em."

 

"Fuck you," Jack said back, chuckling and trying to think of this as just another. . .

 

And six years, four months, and thirteen days later, it was suddenly three of them in the house again. Bobby had his same old room upstairs, the one he and Angel used to share. Mom cooked a bunch of food every night, insisting they all eat together.

 

"Like a family," she'd said.

 

Jack could tell she was trying real hard not to come down on Bobby with all the advice and go-get-'em attitude of her job. Must've sucked. Mom was the poster child for taking her work home with her. Christ, adopting four fucked-up boys, with the only thing they had in common the fact they were all throw-aways, raising 'em, loving and taking care of 'em. . . doing all that and then still being able to tread carefully, and somehow resist giving a lecture on the evils of the street and saying a well-deserved 'I Told You So?' Bobby was damned lucky Mom was Mom and understanding as fuck, or else he'd be hearing nothing but how much he'd fucked up and what a worthless piece he was and how grateful he should feel that he still had a home and every other fucking thing.

 

Man, Mom had the patience of a saint, and that was no exaggeration. It was a once-a-day, mini-lecture with her on your major fuck-ups and that was it. Jack usually got his whenever he made the mistake of getting home in the evening after Mom. She didn't like that, thought he should be inside before it got dark like some infant.

 

"Jackie," she'd say, that tender look on her face, "you and I both know it's just. . . different with you."

 

But that was just Mom. Thinking about it, he kinda realized she was a bit of a jerk, too. It wasn't a game with her, and Jack didn't think she really got any amusement out of picking, not like Bobby did, but the fact was. . . Mom, Evelyn, she was one tough broad. She could argue and fight and guilt the hell outta anybody. _Anybody_. Thugs had sometimes come around the house while Bobby was still inside, and every time, Mom would tell Jack to go back into the kitchen and then she'd-- she'd just let it _rip_ on those sons-a-bitches. She'd lay into 'em, and all sweet and polite, too, and every single time those guys left in a hurry and never came by again.

 

Mom was kind of a bitch, when she needed to be, at least. And maybe that's where Bobby got it from. He'd never let something slide, either, always backed up and picked it apart. Bobby didn't like to be told to do things, not even by Mom. He had to figure it out for himself, and if he couldn't. . . well, then he kept fucking trying. He made fun of it, and tried to get it outta people that way. Just kept picking. Like him always ragging on Jerry about wanting a family and a nice house on the other side of town.

 

Or like how he was with Jack. Bobby didn't seem to get it, so he made fun of it, turned it into a joke, played it off as something stupid Jack just did to. . . what? Get attention? Be different? Who knew what Bobby thought, but it wasn't right whatever it was.

 

And it wasn't like Bobby ever fucking came right out and asked, either.  Jack didn't volunteer information because only retards did that. Nine times outta ten, people didn't give a flying fuck in the first place, and if they _did_, if they were that one time outta ten. . . well, then they'd use whatever information they found out about you _against_ you. It never failed. You show weakness or let on that you're maybe a little different, and someone's gonna make you hurt for it. People, most people, were shits. Every single time. Never failed.

 

And, yeah, Bobby was his brother, and Jack knew the jerk loved him.

 

But Bobby was still a jerk. Jokes and snide fucking remarks were his way of guessing what the deal was. Better that crap than out-and-out hate and scorn, if Bobby didn't like the answers Jack gave him to his questions. If Bobby didn't ask, then Jack sure as fuck wasn't going to say anything.

 

They were _all_ fuck-ups, just in different ways. Bobby had just got outta prison, for Christ's sake. Surely likin' guys wasn't as bad as robbing people, right? And who was to say Jack even did like guys? Who the fuck knew, one way or the other?

 

No one, that's who.

 

Nobody knew, least of all Jack. And that's the way it was gonna fuckin' stay.

 

***

 

If there'd been some way to keep a full-time job and just jam out after and before shifts and _still_ make rent, Jack would have made it happen. He would've done it, happily. He didn't mind bussing tables, or stocking crap in a grocery store, or sorting fucking mail in a basement somewhere. It was the shit pay that he minded. It was busting his ass and actually trying for fucking forever, all for barely minimum wage and not nearly enough to scrape by on. A man had needs. Jack had a fucking crappy-ass apartment he wanted to keep in his name. No more living on the streets, and so that meant making money.

 

He was housebroken now, like Bobby said. It was regular meals and warm clothes and a dependable bathroom and a fucking bed he didn't have to worry about anyone else. . . well, one that was _his_. He had his own pillow, and he stayed up writing and working tunes over as late as he needed to. It was good. It was better than good. Shit, this dump was heaven. Jack wasn't giving it up without a fight, and certainly not without at least trying to earn an honest living.

 

So, in the end, the only reason he agreed to get up on the stage with Randy and his cousin was the money. 5,000 to the winners, for two nights' 20 minute sets. Really? Sure. All right, I guess. You got the entrance fee? Well, let's hit it, man.

 

And they fucking killed. Randy was a bass man. He loved it loud and heavy and the guy's cousin would be on drums. _He_ didn't give two fucks about anything as long as there was at least one fast song he could whale on. The thing was, though, this contest demanded original songs. No covers. And that's why they asked Jack.

 

"Well, you're always writin' in that book, man," Randy had explained defensively, waving his hand at the book in question on Jack's kitchenette. "Is it poetry, or some shit?"

 

"No," Jack answered. "They're songs. Music."

 

"Then what the fuck's the problem? This is our chance, Jack!" Randy exclaimed, hustling up and obviously really, really into the idea. "We'll play your songs, man, and we'll wipe the floor with those losers."

 

"I don't know," Jack hesitated. "I've never played for real. Not-- not in front of a crowd. This is in some bar, right?"

 

"Mag's," Mark supplied. "Downtown. Two blocks, that way," and he gestured towards the South side of the apartment. Mark was sitting on one of Jack's only two chairs, and Jack kinda thought. . . well, Mark looked fucking stoned out of his mind, but--

 

"It's a bar," Randy agreed, glancing at his cousin before looking back at Jack. "Come on, _please_? You want me to beg, Jack? Cos I fucking will. We can do this. We totally can! I can feel it."

 

"When is this thing?" Jack asked, wincing when Randy let out a whoop.

 

"Three weeks, man! We got a whole three fucking weeks."

 

Jack looked at Randy, then over at Mark, who looked to be trying to clean out under his fingernails now, and then back to Randy. Three weeks?

 

"And 40 minutes, you said?" Jack asked dubiously. "Of all original music." He sighed.

 

"Oh, you'll see, Jack!" Randy said. He slung his arm around Jack's shoulders and hauled him back over to where Mark was still futzing with his nails. "We'll rock that place. Folks won't know what hit 'em!"

 

Their set was the second to last that first night, which meant sitting and waiting for nearly every other act to finish, while simultaneously babysitting Mark so the fucker didn't get wasted at the bar. Randy was a jittery mess, and Mark was ticked off cos he couldn't drink and he'd sworn to stay off the drugs until after the last song of their final set the next night.

 

And Jack? Jack kept thinking of the shit he'd get if he ever told anyone at home about this crap. Mom would love it, but the guys?

 

They'd laugh themselves silly, and he'd never hear the end of it. Already got enough guff as it was. Add in him and two other losers getting up on stage in some sleazy Chicago bar, and commencing to play a grand total of 40 minutes of Jack Mercer originals, and you had a recipe for disaster. He could hear it now: Did you go tame or frisky, Jackie boy? Bat your eyelashes at those front row guys? Not too close to the stage, Glamour Puss. Wouldn't want anyone gettin' any ideas. A Lady's gotta look after her virtue!

 

Jack sighed, pushed his soda away. The band before them finished to weak applause, which was both a good sign and a bad one. Good, because it meant the three of them stood a chance of wiping the floor with those guys. Crowd opinion factored into the "judging" quite a lot.

 

But it was bad because. . . well, a bored crowd seemed like it'd be harder to get back. They'd have to start from scratch, and just pray that these people were open and in the right mood for. . . for what Jack had fucking come up with.

 

Oh, _fuck_, he thought, just as the other band finished leaving the stage and Randy jumped up to start rigging their stuff into place. They were gonna be playing Jack's stuff, and only Jack's.

 

If they sucked. . . it would be pretty much all Jack's fault.

 

And Mom said _Bobby_ was the one who didn't think things through.

 

***

 

"I was beginning to think there weren't any phones in Chicago," Mom said, "considering it's been more than three weeks, Jack Lee Mercer, and you are just _now_ calling."

 

He grimaced. "Yeah, Ma, sorry," he offered and heard her snort across the line. "I'm at a pay phone, so-- "

 

"You mean you can't even afford a landline, honey?" she asked, her voice suddenly quiet and worried. Best to cut that line of thought off before it bloomed into something bigger.

 

"No, no," he denied quickly. "Just been busy, is all. Working. I work a lot."

 

No response, and that was never a good sign, either. Jack didn't really want to offer up any more, though, cos that was just another way to get into trouble. Mom liked to keep quiet and just wait people out, letting them spill their troubles in a rush to break the silence. It was a technique of hers.

 

Unfortunately, it worked more often than not, even if the person _did_ know what Mom was doing. Jack always fell for it, only realizing what all he'd said when it was too late and Mom was already worrying and freaking out about everything. Not this time, though. He'd stick to the script. No lying, that just felt wrong, but keeping stuff to himself. . . that was okay. Kinda.

 

"Uh-huh," Mom eventually said. "And where are you doing all this working? Somewhere. . . nice? Don't tell me you're being stupid, Jack. Don't you tell me that. Get enough of that from your brothers. I don't need you forgetting you have a brain, too."

 

He smiled at that. "Who is it this time? Bobby?"

 

"No, no." Mom took a deep breath in and then pushed it out in an audible sigh. "No, I think the last talk he and I had was. . . well, he's over on Jefferson during the days. Construction. But we'll see how long that lasts."

 

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, I gotta-- I gotta say, don't get your hopes up. You know he hates doing that stuff."

 

"Better than the alternative," she retorted. "And don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, Mister. Distracting me is not going to work. Not after three weeks!" She was quiet again, and Jack bit his lip so he wouldn't say anything. Then Mom sighed again, saying tiredly, "You know it'd be different if you were still here in town, honey. I wouldn't worry so much. You'd be. . . closer. But all the way there in Chicago? Well, I don't think it's too much to ask for you to call me every now and then and let me know you're still. . . that you're all right."

 

"It's not too much, Mom," he told her quietly. "I'm sorry."

 

"I just worry, Jackie."

 

"I know. I know you do, but I'm fine," he assured her. Silence. "I am! I swear. I have an apartment and a job and my rent's due the end of this week and I have the money to pay it. Okay?"

 

"And you're eating?" she asked. "Rent is all well and good, but it isn't much use if you're starving."

 

"I eat," he said, chuckling and shaking his head. "I work at a diner, Ma. They give me food for free after shift."

 

"Good. That's good."

 

More silence. Jack wondered what she was doing while they talked. Mom was always doing two things at once. He remembered the time Angel had called and she'd managed to cook a whole meal while chewing him out at the same time. Fried chicken, too. Afterward, Jack had eaten that food with a grin on his face. It was like he could taste the ass-ripping in every bite, and it was all for someone else for once.

 

Folding clothes now, maybe? That was a favorite. Or cleaning something. It'd been three weeks. Who knew what needed cleaning these days. When he'd left, the tub was about due for a scrubbing, but. . . that was three weeks ago.

 

"I gotta go, Mom," he said into the silence. "Time's about up, I think, and I'm outta change."

 

"You are doing okay, aren't you, honey?" Mom asked quietly. No fooling around this time, not with that tone. Stern-concern, Jerry called it. "You're always welcome back here. You know that, right? And if you need some money, or something, I can wire you som-- "

 

"No, I'm fine," he interrupted. "I'm fine, Mom. I promise. I'll call you more from now on, okay? Next week? You still doing that shelter stuff on Tuesdays?"

 

"And Thursdays," she said. "With all you boys outta the house, I have more time all of a sudden. But you call me at least once a week, Jack Lee! You hear me?"

 

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "I hear ya. Once a week. Call Mom. Get an ass-chewing," he added, smiling.

 

"Everyone needs one!" she joked, and Jack could hear the smile in her voice. He could picture her, standing up and cradling that ancient cordless phone in her hand. Time to say good-bye.

 

"I love you, Mom," he told her, wincing at the way his voice gave him away.

 

"I love you, too, Kiddo. You remember that when you get up."

 

"And when I go to sleep," he filled in, smiling again.

 

"But, most of all," they said together, "when you're about to do something stupid."

 

"Now go get some sleep!" Mom ordered him. "I'll tell your brothers 'Hello' for you."

 

"Yeah. Yeah, night, Mom."

 

"Buh-bye," she said, and then the line clicked dead. Jack chuckled and hung up the payphone. Every time to every person she talked to, that was what Mom said before hanging up. She even did it after cussing out the assholes who sometimes called. It was hysterical to hear some person yelling on the other end of the line and then Mom's chipper, "Buh-bye!"

 

Jack pulled open the glass door of the booth and then dug around in the pockets of his coat for his gloves. Pulling them on, he started the walk back to his apartment.

 

And tried not to think of Mom alone. Or home.

 

***

 

"Where the hell you been, Boy?" Angel called out once Jack reached the second floor landing. The door to Angel's room was open wide, with him lounging there on the bed and staring right at Jack.

 

"Out," Jack muttered.

 

"Li'l boy like you? Man, it's past midnight. The fuck do kids do when it's this late?"

 

Jack glared at him, and then headed left to go to his room without answering. Should've known better, though. That move worked with Jerry, but not on anyone else.

 

"What the fuck?" Angel said loudly, and Jack heard the bedsprings groan as he rolled off and started tromping down the hall after him. "Since when you just ignore me, man? Lucky Ma isn't here, or your ass would be in a sling and the neighbors'd be cussing us again for all the racket. Hey!" he called out sharply, reaching to snag a hold of Jack's arm. "I said I'm talkin' to you." Angel tugged and Jack was jerked around to face him.

 

"What?" Jack finally asked, meeting Angel's eyes and just waiting for him to try something.

 

"Jackie?" Angel said, pulling back and just. . . looking at him weird.

 

"Fuck off," Jack told him, pulling his arm free, and then giving Angel a push in the chest. He turned and went into his own room, shutting the door in Angel's face and then bracing his back against it.

 

"Kid, what the hell is goin' on?" came Angel's voice real quiet from the other side.

 

Jack didn't answer, just stood there like a moron.

 

"This about. . . Bobby?"

 

"Shut up," Jack shouted before he could help himself. "Fuck off, Angel. Leave me alone."

 

" 'S not the end of the world, man. He'll get out."

 

Jack took a couple deep breaths, listening closely for any sound that Angel might've wandered the fuck off. Nope.

 

"Just. . . I heard stuff," Angel eventually said, real low. Wasn't anybody else but the two of them in the house, and here Angel was practically whispering at Jack through the door. Angel. _Whispering_.

 

When had things just. . . gotten so fucked up? A month ago, they were all five eating ham and potatoes and ragging on each other and Mom's taste in music and now--

 

Jack blinked and bit his lip, trying to breathe quieter and not fucking sniffle.

 

"Just cos he's gone," Angel said, "don't mean you gotta be. . . doin' that shit. Don't need the money. Ain't nobody getting kicked outta this house, Jackie. Gotta know that by now." He was quiet for awhile, and then said louder, "You stop, or me and you gonna have a different 'conversation.'"

 

There was a sharp slam on the door. Jack could feel it through the wood. About shoulder high. Angel's fist.

 

"You get me?" he demanded. Another punch to the door. "Jack! Fuckin' answer me! You get what I'm tellin' you? Stop that fucking shit or so help me I will pound your face to a pulp and then I'll fucking tell Mom."

 

"Fuck you, Angel!" Jack shouted, unable to do anything but just stand there. He felt frozen to the spot, like he'd stay there and never move again.

 

"Yeah, _no_," Angel retorted, scoffing. "I don't do dudes, man. And _you'd_ better fucking stop. 'M not kidding about telling Ma. I will. Probably should anyway."

 

"Please don't," Jack whispered, hoping Angel didn't hear him and that he did, too.

 

Heavy sigh on the other side of the door. "Yeah. I won't. Just. . . stop, man. You shouldn't be doing that shit. Just a kid. Fucking. . . play with GI Joe, or some shit, man."

 

Jack did sniffle then, but he chuckled, too. Thought maybe that covered it up.

 

"I'm 13," he said, "not 4."

 

"GI Joe's cool, no matter how old you are, dude," Angel replied indignantly. "Don't be knockin' The Man."

 

"Thought you guys hated The Man," Jack said quietly. He eased up from leaning on the door. The floorboards creaked a little to his shame, which meant Angel would be able to tell that Jack had moved. Sure enough, a few seconds later the door was pushed open from the outside, and Jack had to force himself to look up.

 

"Hey," Angel offered, and Jack huffed a laugh.

 

***

 

" . . . no, think I'll stick around," he heard. Bobby's voice. "For the kid, you know."

 

"I think that's a good idea," Evelyn said. There was someone moving close by, and Jack made sure he was hidden behind the wall. He was quiet, even making his breaths come out slower so they wouldn't hear him.

 

"Yeah," Bobby said.

 

The moving sounds got quieter, far away, and then there was a weird screech. The chair being moved on the floor. Then there was a loud breath of air from someone. Evelyn sitting down, Jack thought. Bobby had been at the table when Jack had snuck down the stairs. Now she was sitting there, too.

 

And they were talking about _him_. Again.

 

Another loud breath, a sigh, then Bobby's voice asking, "So you got the facts on him?"

 

"On Jack?" was Evelyn's answer back. Someone grunted. Bobby. "Of course," Evelyn said, and Jack thought she sounded kinda. . . not mad, but sorta like that. Not happy. Sad?

 

It was real quiet for awhile after that, and Jack started getting afraid that maybe they'd heard him and were gonna come check and then they'd see him spying on 'em. Then they'd yell at him and--

 

"Pretty bad, huh?"

 

Jack breathed out too fast. It was too loud, and they'd hear him now for sure, but he was just so happy they'd started talking again. He should go upstairs again while they were still making noise and sitting there at the table. If he waited too long, Bobby might come out to go to his and Angel's room and then he'd see Jack and. . . and then Jack would be in trouble again.

 

"Yes," Evelyn said, and Jack had to think real hard on what they were talking about. About him, yeah, but what? Something about something bad? What was bad? Him?

 

Jack bit his lip to keep quiet as he thought he got what they were saying in there. He was being bad again and Bobby was asking Evelyn about what they were gonna do with him. Bobby had said he was going to stay around. 'For the kid,' he'd said.

 

Jack swallowed and it hurt. He felt really cold and he bit his lip too hard cos blood came onto his tongue. He always did this. He always messed up, but he never knew how! Every time he did something and then someone would come and get him and he'd have to leave, but he never knew _why_!

 

He knew he was being a baby again. Cos only babies cried. But he was real quiet about it. He didn't sniffle and so snot started running from his nose, but snot was better than Bobby coming out of the kitchen cos Jack had made too much noise sniffling. 'For the kid.'

 

Was he going away again? He bit harder in his mouth, and more blood came out. He didn't want to go.

 

"Yeah," Bobby said, and there was a weird sound. Sorta scratching, but. . . smooth, too. Maybe something to do with the table? They were sitting there. Maybe a game or something.

 

"Do I need this?" came Evelyn's voice. She sounded kinda happy, like she was laughing but only a little.

 

"Yeah," answered Bobby. "Yeah, I think I-- I should tell you somethin' and when you hear what it is. . . well, you're gonna thank me for that shot. Believe me."

 

Something clicked, and then there was a louder click. On the table, it sounded like. Something set on the table. Or dropped? Sounded heavy, but not broken.

 

"Okay," said Evelyn's voice. "What is it? Something about Jack, I take it?"

 

Someone breathed heavily, and Jack felt cold again before he got that it wasn't him breathing hard. It was one of them in the kitchen. He should leave. They were talking, and it sounded like they wouldn't be done soon. He should go back up to the room.

 

But he wanted to know what he'd done. If he knew then he could stop doing it, and they'd let him stay. He hoped they would. He didn't want to go.

 

"Okay," came Bobby's voice. "I'm gonna say this, and you gotta let me say it without interrupting."

 

"Okay," Evelyn said real quick. "No interrupting."

 

Sound like someone breathing out and laughing together, and then Bobby said, "I hope there's something in that kid's file about. . . about some funny shit going on, or else you're gonna have to look into it. Nope," Bobby said real quick. "No interrupting. Okay, funny shit. Funny shit is me coming home last Tuesday, and the house is empty except for these weird sounds upstairs. I go up there, and it's some kind of scratching coming from the closet in Jerry's room. His and the kid's, right? So I go over and open the closet door and-- "

 

"Oh, Jesus," Evelyn said all quiet, but Bobby didn't stop talking.

 

"Yeah, so there's Jack. In the closet. And he's. . . Ma, he had no clothes on. And before you ask, yeah, I fuckin' talked to Jerry. Said he hadn't seen that, but. . . there'd been some other funny shit, too. Stuff. . . like that."

 

Heavy breathing again, but quick and louder this time. Jack hoped it was still one of them sighing. Something fell on his hand. It was wet, and he looked down. Red. There was red on his hand, and then Jack felt cold air in his mouth and knew that it was open. He'd opened his mouth and blood came out cos he'd been biting the inside part of his lip real hard. His face felt hard and sticky, too, cos he couldn't sniffle and so snot ran out his nose and he was still scared they were gonna come and make him leave so he'd cried, too, and now--

 

"You hear that?" Bobby's voice said quick. Mad. Mad voice. Sharp and louder and then the screeching of a chair again.

 

Jack knew it was too late before he'd even started, but he had to try. He gave up on being quiet and just went as fast as he could to the stairs. He didn't get there.

 

"Whoa! Whoa, hey!" Bobby said, and then he was holding Jack's arms and turning him around. The light in the hall came on, and Jack blinked cos he couldn't see. It was too bright, and Bobby was right there and he was holding Jack's arms real tight. Someone made a weird sound, and there was still that heavy breathing close by.

 

Jack looked up even if his eyes did hurt in the light and he saw Evelyn at the kitchen doorway. One of her hands was on the light switch, so she must've turned it on. Her other hand was hiding her mouth, and she didn't look mad really.

 

But she didn't look happy, either.

 

"Holy shit!" Bobby said and Jack remembered that he was in trouble.

 

"I'm sorry!" he said to them. "I didn't mean to!"

 

"What?" Bobby asked, and he looked real confused. "No, hey, Kid. Kid," he said again, his eyes small, but not mad. "What's wrong? Are you _bleeding_?!" Bobby asked, and his voice got louder again.

 

Jack got scared and tried to get away.

 

And then Evelyn was standing close, and Bobby let go of Jack's arms.

 

"Jackie," she said, and her voice was real quiet and soft, "why don't you come with me and we go get cleaned up. Huh? I need to wash my face. Will you keep me company?" And then Evelyn lifted her hand like she wanted him to take it.

 

Jack looked up at her face, and then sneaked a quick look at Bobby's. "Okay," he whispered, slowly stretching to reach Evelyn's hand.

 

"Good," she said with a smile. She stood up straight and started walking to the stairs. She never looked away from Jack, but when they got to the steps, Evelyn said, "Maybe some hot chocolate, hon?"

 

"Yeah," came Bobby's voice. He was still in the hall downstairs. Jack risked a quick look down there, and forgot to keep stepping up. Evelyn kinda pulled on him, so Jack turned back real quick to look at the stairs and where his feet were going.

 

Bobby didn't look mad when Jack saw him from the stairs, so Jack kinda let himself think. . . maybe he wouldn't have to leave.

 

Or maybe Bobby just looked real sad cos of something else.

 

***

 

"Here's a new one," Jack said into the mic. Turning to look back at Randy, he smiled, murmuring, "Something borrowed, something blue. . . " Randy laughed at the in-joke, and some people in the audience did, too. Although why was always kinda a mystery to him, people seemed to think Jack was funny on-stage. He loved it even if he didn't understand it.

 

Quite the change of pace from how it usually was.

 

Mark started. Then it was Jack, and he just dove in there with Randy hot on his heels.

 

"When I'm with you, all my brothers, Ooooh/

I feel like a king/

It feels like I’m dreaming"

 

It was a sweet set up at that gig. Mark had managed to charm the bartender into giving them all free drinks, and then afterward the _owner_ of the place came out and they all drank like fish. On the house again. Evidently, the money from the door had been insane and then even higher was the amount people had spent on booze. Jack was never sure if that was a compliment or not, that people coming to hear them play always tended to drink a helluva lot. Oh, it was good for getting gigs. Owners and managers liked acts that could draw in the crowds and of course keep 'em inside the club spending money. That was a no-brainer. Jack's problem was the fact they never played to a sober crowd and that hearing the music was always a second to getting trashed and laid. Drugs and alcohol and whatever else were always floating around, and where that shit was sex wasn't far behind.

 

And people liked the fast songs, which was understandable and, hell, Jack liked them, too. He was the one who'd written most of 'em, after all. Fuck if they'd work so hard on perfecting garbage, either. He liked the fast songs, but he spent a lot of time on the slow ones too, and never got a chance to play 'em. At least not outside of just fucking around in someone's borrowed space, or in clubs after hours.

 

He was starting to feel like one of those douche bags who went around saying it was "all about the music," like the cash had no bearing on anything whatsoever. That was a lie. It always was. Money always played a part. In everything. Everyone was obsessed with money.

 

Including Jack, but he always figured he had a real reason to be, too. Some of these fuckers were from the freakin' suburbs and had gone to private schools with insane music programs. Mark's buddy, the one he was trying to convince Jack to let in the band, that guy's family was loaded and Lance or whatever the fuck his name was. . . he'd applied to Julliard. Julliard. Hadn't gotten in, but. . .

 

Shit like that just blew Jack's mind. He didn't want Lance in the fuckin' band, and as long as it was his say-so they were all sticking to. . . then Lance _wouldn't_ be in the band. Let that shithead go and start his own act, with his high-class, rich-ass, fat cat, spawn pals. It wasn't about the money _that_ much. Jack wasn't gonna start fuckin'. . . whoring out _the band_ to wanna-be rock gods just so's they could get new equipment and maybe some different types of gigs.

 

And all this shit, this melodrama, was definitely starting to show. Jack didn't like playing only the fast songs, and Mark had complained he was tired of twiddling his thumbs on the slow ones when "everyone knows we aren't ever gonna fucking play 'em live." And of course, Randy was being a pussy and clamming right up. The other day, it was all Jack could do not to go over there and knock Mark right off his stupid drum stool and beat the fucker with his own sticks. And Randy just stood there with his thumb up his ass the whole time.

 

His fucking cousin.

 

It was colder in New York than it'd been in Chicago. Not colder than good ol' fuckin' Detroit, though. No place was colder than that hellhole. And the rats were better behaved in the Big Apple. Lots of scurrying, but no biting. Which was a definite plus.

 

"To New York in the winter!" Randy said, holding up his glass and clinking it around.

 

"May it soon be over!" someone shouted down at the other end of the long table, and everyone chuckled and knocked back the whisky.

 

"How long you guys in town for?" a girl two seats away asked, and it took Jack a second or two too long to get that she was asking _him_.

 

He shrugged, sliding the empty glass around between his hands. "For 's long as there're gigs to play and money to stay," he said, and everyone laughed. Jack frowned, not quite getting what was so goddamned funny, but kind of expecting that he wouldn't. He never got people's senses of humor.

 

"Told ya!" Randy said cheerfully, looking at Jack like he was all proud of him.

 

"What're you saying to strangers these days, Randall?" Jack asked, lifting his eyebrows which felt more complicated than it probably should've. Fucking liquor.

 

Randy laughed again, and Jack shook his head. That was one good thing about Randy. He had a decent laugh. None of that barking or annoying-ass guffaw shit other guys let out. Good laugh. Nice and deep.

 

"Nothing, man, I swear," Randy said, moving to sit back down in his chair. He'd risen for his toast and was probably just now realizing he was still standing. Guy was like that all the time, and it was even worse when he was drunk. "Just told these fine ladies what that chick back in Chi-Town said, 's all."

 

Jack frowned again, had the feeling he was doing that a lot. The thought crossed his mind that he should probably hold off for awhile. It was still kinda early. Not a good idea to get wasted in the City when everyone else around was drunk, too, and finding the way back to the motel was still an adventure. He also didn't think standing up was going to be fun.

 

"Chick from Chi-Town said somethin'?" Jack asked, infinitely proud that he'd managed not to slur or stutter on any of it.

 

And again the table started laughing. Some of the girls towards the far end were even fucking craning and stretching so's to get a better look down this way. And Jack was starting to not find this shit funny anymore.

 

"That Valerie chick, remember, man?" Randy said. "The one who said she was, like, in real good with some made-up record exec?"

 

Jack shook his head, then waved his hand for Randy to get to the point.

 

"That every fuckin' sentence outta your mouth was like a fuckin' song," came Mark's voice suddenly. He was sitting farther down the table from Jack and Randy. Actually, it looked like he was next to that fuckin' Lance. Lance again.

 

Fucker.

 

Jack grinned, reached out and against his better judgment poured himself another shot. He hovered the bottle over the glass of the girl to his left and she giggled and nodded. So Jack poured her one, too, and then he set the bottle back down on the table and leaned in real close to the girl.

 

" 'S only poetry when I'm drunk," Jack said, catching her eyes but saying it loud enough that everyone would hear. "Sober's another story I don't much like telling." As the laughter and applause started, Jack put on his best smile and clinked his glass against the girl's. Then he slammed it back and turned to look down the table. At Mark.

 

"You're not foolin' nobody, man," came Mark's voice, slurred and low. And his buddies, fuckin' Lance and the rest of them down there, even started making noise like, "Let it go" and "What are you doing, Mark?"

 

And Jack just looked at Mark and dared him to keep talking.

 

"Got a problem you need to air, Mark?" Jack called out. Ain't no one laughing at that point, and that's when Jack leaned back in his chair and calmly smiled. Man, this shit wasn't even elementary school. "Best get it out. Problems are like wounds, and yours looks infected."

 

"Fucking give it a rest!" Mark shouted back, slamming his glass down too hard on the table. Jack saw people start looking nervously between the two of them, but he wouldn't look away and Mark. . . well, Mark seemed to be using his head for once. A guy doesn't pussy out of a fight, and especially not one he fucking starts himself. In public.

 

About stupid shit that was no one's business, and especially not Mark fucking Arias'.

 

"Hey, guys," Randy actually said, "let's just chill, all right? 'S no big deal. Just have another drink, Mark."

 

"Fuck you, Randy," Mark snapped back. And he looked away. Stupid shit looked away, broke eye contact.

 

God, Jack had guessed Mark was stupid, but not. . . you know, actually _stupid_.

 

"Always taking his fucking side," Mark continued. " 'M your fucking family and you just-- "

 

"Shut up, man," Jack called out. "For fuck's sake, you got a problem, you tell me. You don't wait and bring it up in front of strangers like a pussy."

 

"Who you callin' a fuckin pussy, faggot?!" Mark retorted.

 

And Jack just couldn't help it. He laughed. He almost doubled over laughing, and ended up lightly pounding the table it was so funny.

 

"That's your comeback?" Jack asked finally, still chuckling and grinning. Mark's face was all angry as hell, but the way he'd been acting just made all that even funnier. Guy was angry, but so the fuck what? Not like he was going to do anything about it. "Your big chance to tell me off and you, what? Call me a faggot and glare me to death? What the fuck, man? Are you _10_?"

 

"Jack. . . " Randy said quietly, and that. . . five minutes ago, and Jack would've stopped. Hell, two.

 

But not now. Fuck this shit. His music and his lyrics. Mark wanted to do something different, then he could damn well do it himself. Him and _Lance_.

 

"No, you know what?" Jack asked rhetorically. Some of the girls were looking scared, like the one still at Jack's left, but others were just interested. Like it was all some big production. Fucking melodrama. "I'll fucking tell you _my_ problem, Mark. My problem is you."

 

"What the-- ?"

 

"**_No_**!" Jack shouted, and this time he slammed his hand down on the table. Hard. Loud. The girl next to him flinched like he'd hit her. Jack felt kinda bad about that, but. . . see what Mark made him do? "This ain't the talkin' part. This is the listenin' part. You fuckin' shut your mouth, Mark. I'm sick of hearin' you complain. You're an okay drummer, but you're a fucking shitty person. And dumber than a barrel of spit."

 

And then it was like coming home. Jack was still sitting, leaning close to the table edge and looking down the way at Mark. It was easy to slip his right hand into his pocket under the table.

 

For New York fuckin' City, the place was a lot less violent than he'd expected.

 

"Okay, stop it!" Randy shouted, and some people echoed him. A few girls even stood up and went to leave. Everyone else was still rapid fire looking between Mark and Jack. Jack felt some sort of concern for the girl next to him, so he turned to look at her and jerked his head towards the door. He tried to make it non-threatening, but she bolted so quickly he doubted it'd come off that way.

 

"Where'd you guys grow up?" Jack asked suddenly, conversationally. And then, without waiting for any response, he added, "Cos I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take this outside." Jack brought his right hand up and grinned, snapping the knife open as smoothly as any drunken Detroit boy. Which was to say, fuckin' smooth as hell.

 

"Jesus Christ!"

 

"What the fuck, Jack?!"

 

"Hey, man, I didn't mean nothin', all right? I was just messin'. . . "

 

"Fuck you, Mark," Jack said, standing up and feeling so angry all of a sudden that his whole body vibrated with it. Except his hand. That was steady. "Go play with your boys," he sneered with a glance at Lance.

 

Heh. Glance at Lance.

 

"Chance to parlance," Jack couldn't resist muttering, and was actually surprised by the fear on Mark's face when he looked over again. Fucker looked about ready to piss himself, and here they weren't even past noon on a school day back in Detroit. This wasn't even walking down the street.

 

This shit was like waking up. Jack could do this in his sleep, and doing it drunk to drunks was a fucking blast.

 

Suddenly some more chairs screeched, and Lance and some of his other buddies were making for the exit. Pretty soon, Mark stood up, too.

 

"Be seein' ya, Princess," Jack called out, waggling his eyebrows and licking his lips before grinning again.

 

"Fuck you!" Mark said back. "You're fucking crazy, man!"

 

And then he left, and Jack just laughed cos it was hysterical.

 

And when he saw the look on Randy's face, he laughed even harder and folded his knife back up, sliding it into his pocket once more.

 

"How about another shot?" Jack asked him, reaching for the bottle.

 

***

 

"Nah, man!" Jerry called out from the mound. "You gotta keep looking at it. You're turning away and just swingin'. That ain't no way to hit a ball, Boy! Now, I'ma gonna throw you another one. Real easy," he said, moving like he had before with his arms and legs coming together, "and you just keep looking at it. Don't swing at this one! Just look."

 

And then Jerry threw the ball straight for him, and Jack couldn't help it. He closed his eyes.

 

"Ah, man!" he heard Jerry say, and knew he'd messed up again. Jack felt the baseball fly right past him and that's when he opened his eyes. There was a thump as the ball landed right in Bobby's glove behind him. And Jack let the end of the bat in his hands drop to the ground.

 

"Jackie, man!" Jerry called out, "what'd I say? You just gotta keep your eyes open!"

 

"Hey!" came Bobby's voice, loud and sharp but not angry. Not really. "Can it!" he shouted at Jerry. Then Bobby was setting a hand on Jack's shoulder and moving him away from the home plate. "No, here," he said when Jack was about to let the bat go. Bobby took Jack's hands with his own and tightened 'em around the bat again. "Keep a hold of that. Got a good grip on it?" he asked, getting down on his knees and looking at Jack.

 

Jack shrugged, then nodded. Bobby was still looking at him, right in the face, so Jack kinda looked back.

 

"Now baseball ain't just about hitting the ball," Bobby said real quiet. He put a hand back on Jack's shoulder, and the other held his glove. "See Angel out there?" Bobby suddenly asked, and Jack followed where he pointed with his glove. Angel was standing far out in the grass. Jack thought he looked kinda bored.

 

So Jack nodded, and turned back to look at Bobby.

 

"Now he's waiting for someone to hit the ball, this ball," and Bobby held up his glove which still had the baseball in it. "But so far no one has." Bobby did a real quick look back at Angel and then stared at Jack. "Angel looks real bored out there, huh?"

 

Jack nodded, smiled when Bobby did and he knew it was funny.

 

"So someone's gotta hit this ball, and give him something to do." Bobby took his hand off Jack's shoulder and reached into his glove. He took the ball out and just held it up between their faces. "This ball," Bobby said again, shaking his head. "I'll tell you a secret. You good at keeping secrets, Jackie?"

 

Bobby looked right at Jack, and Jack looked back. He nodded.

 

"You sure?" and Bobby's eyes got smaller like he didn't believe him. "Cos this is important and I don't wanna-- "

 

"I can keep a secret!" Jack insisted. He felt mad that Bobby thought he couldn't, that he thought Jack was some tattle-tale. "I keep lots of secrets," Jack boasted, and he looked right at Bobby as he said it, too. He could cos it wasn't a lie.

 

"I bet you do," Bobby said real quiet, but then he shook the baseball he was holding a little and Jack looked at it instead of Bobby's face. "Now, I'll tell you a secret, Jack, but you gotta promise me you won't tell anyone else. You gonna do that for me? Not even Ma, or Jerry, or Angel." Bobby looked real quick over Jack's shoulder again, out where Angel was still standing in the grass. " 'specially not Angel," he said, and then he and Jack looked at each other at the same time and smiled. "What say you, Kid? You promise?"

 

Jack nodded. Bobby's eyebrows went up, so Jack said, "I promise. I won't tell anyone."

 

"Well, okay then," Bobby said. He moved a little closer and Jack thought it was cos it was a secret, and maybe secrets had to be whispered. "The secret to playing baseball, Jackie? Trust."

 

Jack just frowned at him. Trust?

 

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Bobby told him, shaking the baseball again, "but a guy's gotta trust everyone else in the game, or. . . there's no game." He dropped his hand holding the baseball. "Take me. I gotta trust you not to whack me in the face with that bat when you're standing there at the plate." Bobby looked at the bat in Jack's hands like he was scared of it, and Jack smiled.

 

"And Jerry?" Bobby asked, looking back over his own shoulder where Jerry was standing. "Well, I gotta trust _him_ to throw something I can catch. And if someone with this bat hits the ball before I catch it," and Bobby sorta picked up the bat Jack was holding and helped him hold it up higher, "well, then I gotta trust Angel's gonna get it. That's what he's waiting for out there."

 

Jack turned to look at Angel again, but then Bobby let go of the bat so Jack was the only one holding it up. That made him turn back.

 

"And batters," Bobby said, looking right at Jack, "batters gotta trust the pitchers not to hit 'em. That's you," he added, giving Jack a quick poke in the chest with his finger, "and Jerry."

 

Jack nodded, but Bobby wasn't done. "You trust Jerry, don'tcha, Jack? You know he wouldn't hit you."

 

Jack looked at where Jerry was standing. "Pitcher's mound," Jerry had said earlier. "And those are all bases. When you hit a ball, that one right there's the one you run for. And run real fast, Kid. First base, it's called. We'll worry about second later. You get to first and you'll be all right."

 

Jack nodded. "Yeah," he said, speaking up before Bobby even did that funny thing with his eyebrows again. "I know. I trust him."

 

Bobby smiled, set his hand back on Jack's shoulder. "Good," he said. "That's good. Now, after trust, it's all just timing, Kid. . . "

 

***

 

It'd been raining all day, but when they stepped outside it wasn't. Everything was still wet, though. Jack wasn't sure if they were walking or taking a car, so he made sure he was last. So he could just follow their lead.

 

" . . . didn't fuckin' tell me," he heard Bobby say.

 

"Hey, man," Angel said, and he had to walk on the grass to keep up with Bobby because of how narrow the sidewalk was here. "I can handle this shit. Ain't no reason you need to get involved. Just a coupla punk-ass bitches think they're hot shit."

 

"Nothin' you can't handle," Bobby said really quietly. Jack was pretty far back, so he just barely caught it. They kept walking, though, passing the cars, so he jogged closer to 'em. "That right? Oh, well, far be it from me to interfere. Just let them homeboys harass y'all some more. None o' my business. _Midnight's_ got it under control!"

 

"Fuck you," Angel said, having to hang back cos they'd reached the Petersons' and their yard was all fenced-in. Cars parked all along the curb and fence on the other side meant they had to walk single file. Jack thought it was kinda funny. Maybe they looked like ducklings, he and Angel, following after Bobby like he was some big mama duck. "And fuck that 'Midnight' crap. I'm serious, Bobby! Don't need you comin' in here and messin' up my shi-- !"

 

"Messin' up your shit?!" Bobby shouted, turning around suddenly and stopping dead in his tracks. It made Angel pull up abruptly, too, which of course meant Jack was left in the lurch. He bumped into Angel's back with a grunt and then both Angel and Bobby were just looking at him. Angel turned back first, and then Bobby said, "It's not _your_ shit I'm gonna mess up, little brother. Your 'shit' already _is_ messed up."

 

Angel did that shrug thing he always did when he was nervous or lying his ass off. Or both. Then he said, " 'S a fuckin' black eye, dude! Ain't no big deal. I'll get the fuckers tomorrow! Don't know why you're freakin', man."

 

"You hear that, Jackie?" Bobby called out. Jack looked, but Bobby was still staring at Angel. He didn't think any answer was really necessary, though. Sure enough, five seconds later it was, "He says it ain't no big deal," and then Bobby was crowding into Angel's space, probably doing that stare-down he was famous for. "Gonna take care of it tomorrow, man? Show those guys who they're messin' with?"

 

"Fuck yeah, I am," Angel said right back.

 

"No, fuck _you_, you are," Bobby shouted then, right in Angel's face. "There ain't gonna be a tomorrow, not for this shit! 'S already gone too far. Guy's beatin' on you and trashing on the house? Wake the fuck up, Angel! You're in over your head. Now quit bein' a pussy and let's fucking take care of this."

 

Jack winced at how loud they were being. He took a step back from 'em on the sidewalk and looked around. No one was out, but that didn't mean no one was listening. Probably several folks hearing this, but then. . . 'round here, folks heard everything.

 

They just hardly ever repeated any of it. At least, not unless the return was worth it, and most times it wasn't.

 

Bobby had moved away and was walking down the sidewalk again. Angel was still standing there, though, and Jack. . . he didn't really know what to do. He hadn't wanted to even come, but Bobby had made him. "Gonna see how it really is, Jackie boy," he'd said in that tone.

 

Jack knew better than to argue when Bobby sounded like that. So he'd put on his coat and followed them out the door. They wouldn't have gotten away with this any other night. Mom was doing her volunteer thing down at the shelter.

 

It had to be tonight, or it'd just be Bobby. Jack wasn't s'posed to be outside this late, anyway, never mind with whatever they were heading off to do. Angel got away with a 'Midnight' curfew, but only when Mom thought he wasn't hiding anything or "up to no good." If she thought something was going on, then she refused to let Angel outta the house.

 

Tonight, Jack knew, would definitely fall under the "no good" category. If Mom had been home, she never would've let them leav--

 

"You girls comin'?" Bobby shouted back. "Or do I gotta do this by myself?"

 

Jack moved closer to Angel, looked at him and wondered if he was alone in wanting to just turn around and head home. Bobby had stopped walking and was standing at the end of the block, and even from here Jack could tell he was pissed.

 

"Angel?" Jack asked quietly.

 

But Angel didn't say anything, just shook his head without looking up and then started jogging over to where Bobby was. And Jack didn't know what they were gonna do exactly, but he knew it was probably stupid.

 

"Jackie!" Bobby shouted, his voice sharp and mean.

 

So Jack sighed before catching up to them, still knowing it was stupid, but also probably necessary. Cos people tagging the house was one thing, but some losers cracking Angel's ribs and giving him a black eye was something different.

 

Jack knew that much.

 

***

 

" . . . like to thank you all for comin' out tonight!" Jack said loudly into the microphone, smiling when there was applause and loud cheering. He looked over at Randy and saw he was smiling, too. Jack got his cord straight, so they wouldn't be tripping over it all night, and then signaled to Kevin that he was ready.

 

Kevin started, and then two measures later it was Jack. Usually Randy waited two also, but not tonight. Jack looked over at him, surprised when suddenly the bass line was creeping in under his guitar early.

 

Randy was grinning back and even started doing a stupid little dance like some of the guys from the bands he and Jack were always making fun of. Jack laughed. He laughed so hard he almost missed his cue to sing, and ended up laughing through the first half of the verse anyway.

 

Randy couldn't keep the joke going, though, at least not and still be able to play well. He stopped wiggling his ass like a teenybopper just as the first break in the song came and Jack set the solo down. Mitch came in with the keyboard and the tambourine right on time, and Jack thanked God for small mercies. The song went well, really fucking well. By the time they hit the last chorus, people in the crowd, or up front where he could see 'em anyway, they were doing that little bouncy, semi-dance thing. Place was packed like a tin of sardines.

 

"What the fuck was that?" Jack called out while the applause was still going after they'd finished. He slid up to Randy and all he got in return was that sneaky little grin.

 

"Genius!" Randy shouted into his ear. "Pure genius, man, and you know it!'

 

Jack pulled back so Randy would see him roll his eyes in response. Randy laughed again and Jack couldn't keep from smiling back.

 

"It was all right," he said, straightening his shoulders and making like he was that hotshot from The Stained Lips, the one who always shouted out that he loved the crowd and was gonna buy 'em all "a Big fucking Mac, man! Big Macs for y'all, crazy fuckers!" Randy laughed, slapped him on the back.

 

The clapping and cheering was starting to die down, and so Kevin's shout of, "Hey, girls! Stop flirting and let's play!" rang out loud and clear. Jack turned around, still laughing and flipped the drummer the bird. Kevin just scrunched up his face like he was really pissed, twirling his sticks and trying to make it look. . . menacing?

 

Jack moved back up to the mic, and stage-whispered into it. "Folks, it appears we're experiencing some technical difficulties here." And before the groaning or booing started, he went on, saying, "Our drummer seems to need the bathroom." Pause. Jack kept his eyes on Kevin, even while Randy started cracking up and the crowd made some noises of confusion. "Wait, never mind," Jack said, "never mind, folks. All just a false alarm." He turned back to face the crowd, looking out and shrugging. "No crapping of pants tonight!" he added brightly, and heard Kevin shout out a "Fuck you! Jesus!" even while the crowd started laughing.

 

Then Jack said, "This one goes out to all the bullies!" waited a few seconds for the noise to die down again, and turned back around to nod at Kevin seriously. This one was Jack starting 'em off, alone for four measures, with Kevin coming in and just the two of them for the first verse. Randy jumped on for the second, right on top this time and not fucking early. Jack shot him a look, but the fucker was still smiling over there.

 

Mitch worked the reverb, muddling it up a little more than Jack liked, but it _was_ almost midnight on a Friday. People liked their bass these days, and he had to admit the crowd seemed to be getting into it.

 

No acoustic slow songs tonight, Jack didn't think, which was actually all right. Maybe next time. The guys were good about having a pretty balanced set. Jack got his slow songs, Randy his heavy bass lines, Kevin his spotlight once in awhile. And Mitch got to play around with his freakin' hardware and synth crap that Jack didn't really understand. It was all good.

 

They'd get 'em next time. They finished the song perfectly, Randy and Mitch fading out and then Jack screeching his own guitar to a halt. Kevin rattled off a few measures of pure manly drumming and then stopped on a dime. The crowd went wild.

 

One of the "front-rowers," as Randy called 'em, kinda moved away from the stage at that point. It was, from what Jack could tell, a dude. Wearing a hat, and a hat an awful lot like that ancient thing of Jerry's back home.

 

"'Cigarette Case'?" Randy suddenly shouted and Jack realized he'd been spacing off.

 

"Yeah," he called back, nodding at Kevin and getting his head back into playing and not. . . letting it wander over to thinking about Jerry or home or crazy-worrying phone messages demanding Jack call him back "right away, man. . . gotta-- gotta tell ya somethin', bro. 'S important."

 

He'd call Jerry back after the show, see what the guy was so anxious to tell him. They all started the next song together, so Jack made sure they were all looking up and ready to go before nodding at Kevin to count 'em off.

 

Another rip-roaring, body-shaking, fast song, but this one always had a special place in the sets. First song Jack and Randy had ever played, ever worked on, honestly. Way back in Chicago. With Mark. Doing that 'Battle of the Bands' crap.

 

First song _Jack_ had ever played on stage. So, yeah, it was pretty fast, but it also kinda didn't count as one. Besides, there was always next time.

 

They'd get to the slow ones. Had all the time in the world.

 

***

 

Watching TV. Had horses on and Jack ran over to sit close. Brent at school made fun and said Jack was dumb, but horses _were_ make-believe. None around. Jack never saw 'em. Brent didn't neither, but he called Jack dumb anyways.

 

TV was up real loud and he was real close to it. Almost all quiet today. No shouting, not at Jack anyways. Brenda-- Brenda was shouted at, but not Jack. Not today. He'd been good. Cleaned up and stayed away. Jack watched the TV and some man in a hat was on a horse. Had a gun and shot people.

 

It got loud real quick. Front door opened and-- and--

 

"Hey there, Jackie." Boots on the carpet like there wasn't s'posed to be. "How you doin' today?"

 

Hand on his head. Hand on his face. "Good, good, Jackie. Watchin' some TV?"

 

"Just set this down here. There. Why don'tcha come here and we'll watch together. Huh? That sounds fun, doesn't it?" Hand. Hand. The horses weren't there anymore. Just men in hats and lotsa guns. Loud. Shooting.

 

"You a real good boy? Huh? Help out around here?"

 

"I got a surprise for you. We'll wait till later. Tonight. Open it then."

 

Hand. Jack stayed quiet when it got loud. Gotta be. Quiet. Nobody s'posed to hear.

 

"Shhh, shhh, Jackie boy. 'S all right. You been a real good boy. Real good."

 

Brenda got shouted at. Lots of shouting. Gun. Shooting. It was real, real loud, but Jack stayed quiet. Not a peep.

 

But no hats. Men and guns. Lotsa guns. No hats.

 

No horses, neither. Brent at school was the dumb one. Horses were make-believe.

 

"That's a good boy, Jackie. Right there. Yeah."

 

***

 

"Come on, Jack, you gotta breathe!"

 

***

 

Wasn't bad like he'd thought. People kept hugging him.

 

Especially that Evelyn lady.

 

***

 

"Fuckin' pansy!" Bobby shouted. "Knock it in there! Goal's wide open and you're standing there with your thumb up your ass!"

 

"Come on, Bobby," Jerry said. "Give the kid a break."

 

"I'll give him a break, all right!" Bobby snapped back, skating over closer to Jack. "Break his face and then see how much fuckin' cock he can suck! Hit it, Boy," he ordered. "You such a big man!"

 

"Fuck you!" Jack screamed back, dropping his hockey stick and shoving Bobby in the chest. He just slid back, though, didn't go down on the ice. "You don't know anythin'!"

 

Jack knew it was the wrong thing to say even before he finished saying it. Bobby was suddenly just there, _right there_, in his face. He grabbed Jack by the neck and yanked him right up close.

 

"I know ain't no brother of mine getting ass-fucked for money! You hear me, Jackie?" He shook him a little. Even slapped him, _hard_, when Jack kept quiet. "I will kill you if I find out you're doing that shit again! I swear to God I will!"

 

And Jack knew Bobby was angry.

 

But he was fuckin' sad, too, and it was because of Jack. Bobby had tears in his eyes and Jack couldn't get a deep breath cos he was practically being strangled.

 

"I-- I hear you," Jack whispered.

 

***

 

"Don't you die on me, you little fairy!" Crying. Bobby was fuckin'-- fuckin' cryin'. Like a . . . fairy.

 

Strangled. Couldn't breathe. "Come on, Jack. Please!"

 

_When I'm with you, _Jack heard, _all my brothers,_

 

_I feel like a king. It feels like I'm dreaming._

 

"You gotta fuckin' breathe! Come on!" Wet. On his face. Fire.

 

Red on him again. Blood. In his mouth, all hot, wet. Dirty. Couldn't feel-- shoulder. Shooting. Guns and hats. Masks.

 

Still no fuckin' horses.

 

"Jack," Bobby cried. "Jack!"

 

Jack. Jackie. "Breathe!"

 

Fire. And Jack heard sirens. Red fire. Lights. Lotsa noise, but it was quiet.

 

Crowd went wild.

 

"Jackie. . . !"

 

***

 

And the lady who drove the car and took him places, she knocked on the door. Book thing in her hand, and she smiled at Jack.

 

"Think you'll like it here," the lady told him. "Evelyn's a real nice lady."

 

Then the door opened. Another lady stood there and then the two ladies talked. Jack kinda peeked into the house.

 

And another boy looked back.

 

***

 

"Breathe!"

 

That tone again.

 

And, well, Jack knew better than to contradict Bobby when he sounded like that.

 

" . . . hear you," he whispered.

 

***

 

 

The End.

 

30


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